A Terrible Day For Rain
by Ristaccia
Summary: Roy Mustang has seen destruction. He has seen entire villages burn before his feet, has seen the folly and despair of the battlefield, and it haunts him daily. He has resolved to kill himself, but before he does, he has been tasked by Hughes to write an account of what he saw in Ishval. Takes place in the 2003 canon.
1. The First Notebook - Pt 1

(AN: My first real, serious fanfiction. Criticism is not only appreciated but vital. Takes place in the 2003 canon, mostly. I may borrow elements from Brotherhood and the Manga. Expect at least weekly updates, but maybe more if I can manage them.)

**The First Notebook - Pt. I**

It is decided. After I undertake this project, I will kill myself. I've considered different ways, and I'm still not sure which one I will choose. There are a few fitting ones, I think. Perhaps I could stuff myself in a wooden barrel. With a snap of my fingers the whole thing would ignite and within a few minutes I would be nothing but a pile of ash. But the truth is, that one scares me. How pathetic is that? A war machine, afraid of a painful death. Perhaps I don't deserve such fury and splendor. An alternative is a simple hanging. One may wonder where the poetry is in that, but I think it makes sense. After all, hanging is the punishment given to war criminals. And though those fools may deny it, I _am_ a war criminal.

I had a dream last night. A fire was raging in the desert. It was colossal, _titanic_, and only got bigger. I heard a chorus of high-pitched screams and violent, throaty bellows in the distance. But that was precisely it, the fire was a distant one. The screams were so far away that one could mistake them for the thin whine of a teacup after it boils. In my dream, I longed to throw myself into the fire. To feel it soak into my skin and into my bones and slowly, painfully, like falling gradually into a pool of water only to drown, I would cease to be. I wanted the ash to blacken my lungs and my eyes because that would be proof that I was still alive, still human. But even as I ran toward the fire, it got further and further away from me. Eventually, I ran out of breath and just gave up. With the flames glowing in my eyes and the wails of thrashing humanity echoing in my ears, I woke up. My back was stiff and my limbs were, for a brief period, immobile. I carried out of my dream the vague impression of being haunted. But of course, we alchemists know that there are no ghosts. Only humans.

I remember a conversation I had with another State Alchemist before the war. Rudolph Welsch, The Life-flow alchemist. Well, that was what we called him then. I hear that the Ishvalans had another name for him, The Plague-bearing Alchemist. They came up with many such mocking names. I remember myself being called The Hell Alchemist. He was considered something of a prodigy back then. His primary research had been in substances in the body like cells, and he found ways to alter them that he thought would revolutionize medicine. All sciences, even biology, broke down at a chemical level, he said, and chemicals are the very realm of alchemy. Many diseases, he said, could be eradicated if only the people in charge would listen to him. He was never really a fighter, more a bookworm type. He was always very diligent in his studies, even on the front. Always had a book in his nose. But the military determined that his research had considerable combat potential, and sent him to the front. It did indeed, from what I witnessed. The same powers that could be used eradicate disease proved extremely apt at introducing it into the population. Thousands of Ishvalans felt the effects, as their skins began to itch and eventually become hard as rock, a malfunction of the immune system. Eventually they killed him, hung him actually. I don't think he cared, really. I remember when we found the body, there was no fear in the eyes. Only a listless, bored look.

But before the war, I remember he had such bright eyes. We didn't talk much but the one conversation I remember we had was an interesting one, and always sticks out as being the defining moment of my life before the war. We were both in the back of a transport truck, carrying us and a dozen other alchemists to the front. It was a bumpy ride. He was sitting across from me. I think it was Kimblee to my left.

"You know in Ishval they have an old legend, about fire," he said, smiling at me. I hadn't know my reputation was so great, but evidently he recognized me. I smiled back, politely.

"Reading about the people we're supposed to kill? Now that's just a bad idea," said Kimblee, with his normal arrogance. I suppose in hindsight, though, what he said was true. Learning about anything that could make the Ishvalans human was just asking for trouble. Still, he went on.

"We're not supposed to kill them," reasoned Rudolph, "only to quell the rebellion."

"You're that naïve? The Fuhrer doesn't want peace with Ishval. He wants a bloodbath. I, for one, am inclined to agree with him," said Kimblee.

"Anyway," Rudolph rolled his eyes and looked back to me. "You know of the Ishvalan Holy City, Lavosh, yes? They say that one of Ishvala's first acts was to bring fire to the people living there. It was only a small settlement at the time, if it could even be called that. Just a little group of Ishvalans who collaborated in foraging expeditions throughout the desert, every so often turning up a cactus fruit or something like that. But it was Ishval who brought them fire, and thus the means to cook. Their civilization, they say, was born from fire, an old truism of theirs."

He explained this with all the innocence of a scientist. The impersonal love of learning that comes to truly intelligent people. He really was a sweet boy. He had a clean, unshaven face that seemed almost to glow in the hot desert sun. He had long, boyishly-cut brown hair that extended just to the edge of his jawline. When he died I remember that his hair had grown all the way to his shoulderblades, as he never really saw fit to cut it as the war went on. His face was ruddy and dark.

"Is that so?" I said, a little bored. I never was one for history.

"That's right. Really the Ishvalans are a very fascinating people. If possible I'd like to come back over all of this is over and just study them. Bio-alchemy is all well and good, but on the research side we don't really get a lot of human contact," he grinned sheepishly.

"Once all this is over," I said. "Pretty sure it's gonna be awhile." The truck jolted up, sending us all flying out of our seats. Once we were able to sit back down, Kimble pulled his hat down and smiled grimly.

"You ever hear that saying, from dust we came, and to dust we shall return?" He said. "It'll be the same with the Ishvalans. From flames they came, and into flames they will return. Just like all of us, when you think about it."

"You're nuts, Kimblee," said Rudolph. At the time, I was inclined to agree, but didn't say anything. Kimblee was my senior as an alchemist, and back then seniority meant a lot.

I'd say what he was saying was insane _now_, but in light of what happened in Ishval I don't think that I can. It's pretty messed up, when something Kimblee says is the most sane thing you've ever heard. But maybe, despite his cruelty and despite the sadistic pleasure he took in killing, he was on to something. Maybe he saw something that none of us did. I don't know. I don't know anything anymore, if I'm honest with myself.


	2. The First Notebook - Pt 2

**The First Notebook - Pt. II**

As I pick up my pen today, I am filled with a damp feeling in my heart. It is a gray, overcast day. A slight, pleasant drizzle is tapping on the roof of the rented apartment. The air is moist and thick. I took a walk earlier today and it was very foggy. I've become very fond of rain in these days. I remember I used to hate rain because it rendered me essentially incapable of field studies. Flame alchemy is unfortunately not so conducive to moisture, the old fire-water balance I guess. So on rainy days like this I would always cloister myself up in my room with a book. I can't really read anymore, sadly. None of the alchemy books have anything to offer me. Whenever I try to connect the principles they offer into something new, it just comes to a dead end. Literature and politics have also lost their luster. I just can't enjoy them like I used to. It's not so bad, I've grown to appreciate other things. Like sleep, as long as I don't dream. Rain is perfect for inducing that perfect, quiet, empty sleep. So that's what I did most of today. Just, sleep. But I have to write. This isn't going to write itself. These are things that have to be put into words. I wonder if I can do it.

Thinking about it, I never have mentioned why I started writing this sordid memoir. It was all Hughes' idea. We talked about it earlier, a couple of days ago. It was a bright, sunny day. So bright that you could barely look up without squinting. We were sitting outside on the verandah of the Cafe Gebhard, named I think, for the old owner of the place, before he died. It's since passed on to his son and grandson. It was apparently pretty popular back when Gebhard owned it, but not so much now. The food is superb, but I guess people don't really come to family-run businesses much anymore. Anyway, the promise of good food and quiet is enough to drive us there every few days, to have lunch and keep up with each other's lives. It's a nice arrangement, at least for now, I think.

The two of us were talking about books at the time. Where I've slipped in my studies, Hughes has remained diligent. Politics, military theory. I often forget how intelligent Hughes is, but there are reasons that he climbed the ladder so quickly. Even with that new girlfriend of his, Gracia, I think it was, keeping him busy, he always seems to find time to keep informed about events and ideas.

"Have you read Klein's new book? The one on revolution? Great stuff, I'd check it out. Gracia just loves it," he said. He'd been accepting recommendations from her apparently. From what I'd seen of his new girlfriend, she was a simple and kind woman, with, fittingly, very gracious features. Apparently her reading habits weren't reflective of her disposition. Or maybe Hughes' tastes were rubbing off on her. He does have an infectious personality.

"Can't say I have. Haven't been reading too much lately."

"That's no good Roy," he said, wagging his finger playfully. "You've gotta lighten up. I was out there too, you know. But things have changed. We're members of _polite_ society again. We need to act like it." His voice was dripping with sarcasm, but not vitriolic sarcasm. Just the humorous kind adopted between friends.

"Acting is fine, Hughes. I'm fine at acting. But I can't feel what I don't feel."

"What do you feel?" He said, genuine concern lighting across his face. "Are you alright, Roy?"

"I've been having too many nightmares, Maes. When I'm asleep, when I'm awake. I can't get Ishval out of my head. And I can't help feeling like I made the wrong choice."

"There was no other choice, Roy."

"There's always another choice."

He scratched the back of his head, averting his eyes slightly, as if in embarrassment that he'd said anything. But then his gaze flying right back at me, with the heartbreaking force of a flying dagger. He has such a kind, friendly smile. But when he gets serious, there's nobody more earnest, more sincere. He grabbed the edges of the table we were sitting on with his hands, causing the whole thing to shake.

"It's not your fault. It's the government, that's who's responsible. The Fuhrer and his warmongering toadies. They were the ones that gave the orders. They were the ones that authorized the killings."

"That's easy enough to say. But ultimately it's just a denial of responsibility. The government may have given orders, yes, but we executed them. In any just society, we would be war criminals. It's only by the government's_ good grace_ that we're even still alive," I said, only half believing myself. "And watch what you say, Maes. Saying things like that could be dangerous. I know you're more careful than that."

"War criminals?" Said Maes, horrified. Then, slowly, his expression shifted into a sad smile. Tears began to roll down his face. I swear, he switches between poles so fast it's uncanny. "I guess you're right. I guess that's what we are, is was criminals."

"Be careful who you say that around, too. Remember, we're heroes. We need to be heroes. That's what the General said in his speech before we left, remember?"

"Even though we're not?"

"Even though we're not."

We sat there in silence for a long time, staring at our sandwiches, neither of us courageous enough to keep talking or to take another bite. Then I blurted it out, all of a sudden.

"I'm thinking about killing myself, Maes."

"Why?" He said, his brows furrowing.

"You're right, we're not heroes. Having to be a hero is pissing me off, to be honest. I feel like killing myself is the only way to reconcile those two images. Or maybe it's just a way to escape the nightmares. Anyway, I can't go on living like this. You know that as well as I can. I haven't done any serious alchemy in months"

Maes thought about that for a moment. Then, his voice trembling, he said, "why don't you write it down?"

"Write what down?"

"The war. What we really did there. Not about the war the newspapers write, but the real war. Klein wrote that that every revolution begins with an idea. If we showed them what really happened, well," he said wryly, "maybe they'll hang us themselves. And the damned Fuhrer too."

"Watch yourself," I said. Still, I couldn't deny the logic in what he was saying. If we could show the public what really happened in Ishval, what we really experienced, hell, what the Ishvalans experienced. Maybe they would understand and try to change things. It was a shot in the dark, to be honest, but I decided to try it. At least before I died. Maybe a part of me just isn't ready to die, isn't ready to accept what happened. So I write. Anyway, it is helping to clear my mind.

So here it goes, a wild stab in the dark. I am Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang, and this is my account of the Ishvalan War of Extermination. Signed and dated, March 3rd, 1910.


	3. The First Notebook - Pt 3

**The First Notebook - Pt. III**

It began, as I see it, on a cool, soft winter's day. A dry, quiet snow was falling slowly and deliberately onto the slick city streets, giving the impression of being anchored in a field of stars. A fresh wind would every so often whip out from behind a building, nipping lightly at the tips of fingers and the tips of noses. I was bundled up inside, reading something, probably a book on political theory, when I heard the knock on the door. I suppose it only took a couple of seconds or so, between my putting the book down, and my hopping out of bed, and my walking to the door, looking through the peephole, and, cautiously, opening it. But in hindsight the whole thing seems like it was a liquid moment, like walking through a bowl of gelatin.

The man who greeted me when I opened the door was very thin, almost all ribcage, that was the first thing I noticed. He was so thin, in fact, that he seemed to be almost tubular in shape. He had thin gray hair and smooth, shiny skin, almost like a baby's, though you could tell he was very old. Most distinctive, though, were his eyes. They were shifty and intelligent- golden yellow with tiny pupils that even in the blur of winter seemed to pierce deep into your very viscera. A gaze that made your organs squirm. He gave me a curt salute, and got straight down to business.

"Major Roy Mustang, I presume?" He said. He had a slight lisp which gave everything he said a crisp sound, like crumpling paper.

"That's me," I said.

"Orders direct from the Fuhrer," he said, handing me an envelope. "You're being sent to the front, sir. All the alchemists are."

At first, I didn't really believe what he was saying. Something odd about talented intellectuals is that they often feel themselves to be exempt from certain rules. They live in their own insular worlds, trapped in their minds, assuming that nothing can break them from the flow of their own thoughts. So when the outside world comes knocking on the door with obligations and orders, it somehow doesn't feel real. I remember talking with Rudolph about this, and he said he felt something similar when he got the order. Like it was some sort of nightmare.

"Why?" I asked. "Why would the Fuhrer do this?" I must have betrayed some hint of anger in my voice, because he shrunk nervously backwards with a sheepish grin on his face.

"Hey, don't ask me, sir. I'm just the messenger. Something about getting the Ishvalans to sue for peace, quick-like and all that, sir," he said.

"I thought the military had all that in order," I said. "That's what the newspapers are saying, victory after victory. Why would they need to bring the State Alchemists into this?"

Of course, even then I wasn't naïve enough to believe that the newspapers were reporting pure facts. As an employee of the state, it was easy enough to see the duplicity involved in the journalism regarding the war. That the serious newspapers were too vague and the tabloids too sensational. Still, for a moment I really wanted to believe that everything was fine, because that was the only way I would be secure and free. I also felt betrayed, like a knife had been jabbed into my back and had left me with a ragged, bleeding wound that could not be closed. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

"I don't know, sir. They didn't tell me anything. Just read the order, it should all be there," he said.

"Whatever. Thank you for telling me. That'll be all," I said.

"Thank you, sir. Just read the order, it's all there," he said with a salute. Then I shut the door in his face.

In a nervous daze, I walked back over to my bed and sat down. The air seemed to be charged with electricity and all of the familiar objects in my room became sources of new horror. A coatrack by the door, a chess set splayed out on my coffee table with the remains of a game me and Hughes had been playing, the closet slanted barely open. They took on a new menace, as something fundamental in my character changed imperceptibly. Since coming home I have replaced almost all of my furniture. I couldn't stand to look at it.

I opened the note with shaking hands and a heavy feeling in my stomach. I actually have the original order still, I think. Yes, I do. I'll paste the important part in the notebook for your benefit. Omitted is the list of names of other State Alchemists to which the order was delivered.

From: Fuhrer King Bradley

_To: Major  
__Roy Mustang  
__Rolling Oaks, Apt. No. 515  
__Central City, Central Area_

_Via. Corporal  
__Johann Pfeiffer  
__Subject: Ishval_

_You, along with your fellow State Alchemists, are being ordered to the Ishvalan front for active duty, effective as of December 24, 1908. You will report to the military headquarters at 0900 on this date, at which point you will be transported by truck to Ishval. From there, you will await further orders._

_Fuhrer King Bradley_

So much for information. The order was so milquetoast that it was hard to really comprehend the gravity of it. There was no rich prose, no call to action, no explanation. Just a simple command. We were to go to Ishval. I almost ran back out to ask the man if he was sure that was all there was to it, but I quickly thought better of it. Better to resign myself to my fate. I chose this path when I became a State Alchemist, after all. My idyllic period of research and reading couldn't extend indefinitely, not while there was a war on. I sat for a long time on that bed, face in my hands. Ishval. Damn. In two days. Damn.

Putting on my coat, I stepped outside into the cold. My mind became as empty and clear as the snow blanketing the streets, pure white, a desolate and silent landscape. I focused on nothing but the crunch of snow beneath my boots, the sound of wind blowing about the limbs of dead trees. I put a cigarette to my mouth and lit it. The tip glowed a bright orange, in deep contrast in the blue-gray of the winter daylight.

I walked for a very long time, with no particular sense of where I was going. I've heard there is a phenomenon in a country to the Northwest, perhaps Drachma, where farmers will get lost in their own fields. Land that they've tilled and worked for years and years and generations and generations, and suddenly nothing will make sense and everything will seem alien. Folk wisdom says that the farm has traced into another dimension, another strange and different place that of course the poor farmer has no recollection of. I don't know how much stock to put into it, but it seemed to be exactly what happened that day in Central. I'd lived in Central essentially my whole life, and I thought that the streets were familiar. But suddenly I couldn't recognize anything- no landmarks, nothing familiar. Just buildings covered in snow. I got lost and wandered around like a listless ghost. The city has really never seemed the same to me, since that day.

I did eventually find myself at Hughes's apartment, and he drove me home. But by that point I was shivering and numb from the cold. All the way back, those two thoughts kept bubbling up in my mind, like roots stubbornly showing above a field of snow.

Ishval. Damn. In two days. Damn.


	4. The First Notebook - Pt 4

**The First Notebook - IV**

I woke up in the middle of the night, experiencing a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach. Lighting a candle, I pored over some alchemy texts but I could not seem to get any momentum with them, so here I am writing again. The truth is, I cannot stop thinking about that snowy day, when I received my orders. It has stuck with me as a defining moment, as the flash between light and dark. Freedom; order. Life; death. Because I think I did die a little that day, something in me, that I was never able to recover, something that I need to have in order to continue honestly.

It's a hurdle I'm going to have to jump, but for now, let us continue where we left off. I was at Hughes' apartment, flesh red and sticky with snow. A dull ringing echoed in the back of my head, a sound that would not leave my skull until long after the conflict was over and which I still hear sometimes in my dreams. I knocked on the door and Hughes opened it. He looked at me with pity and understanding and invited me in. Apparently he had heard about what had happened.

"I got lost. Just take me home, Hughes," I said.

"Roy..."

"I appreciate the sentiment, Hughes, but I need to be home."

"You'll just be leaving soon anyway."

He had a point, but I wasn't in the mood to listen. Oddly enough, it wasn't really the spiritual discomfort that moved me to want to return. Really all I felt in my soul after that walk was a dull, throbbing ache. Far more pronounced was the physical discomfort I felt. An itchy feeling burning across my skin, like just beneath it was crawling with maggots. I felt like a torn up, wet rag and all I felt I needed was a warm bath.

"Take me home, Hughes."

"Okay, Roy."

We both loaded up into his car. In hindsight this may have been a bad idea. The roads being covered in that thin layer of snow, our movements were slow and sluggish. The wheels turned with all the force and speed of a watermill being propelled by a glacier. But it was warm enough in the car and a bit of the discomfort was alleviated. Hughes' presence beside me also warmed me, and the heat radiating from his body filled me with a dreamy sense of half-contentment, or perhaps complacency.

The ride passed, however, in silence. It was a heavy silence that filled the air with a metallic, leaden weight. Sounds like the shifting of gears or the jangling of keys took on a hollow, ringing quality. Like if you were to tap your fingers on an empty metal tin, but it was a substantial hollowness. The very inanity of these tiny movements became filled with meaning. So when finally the silence was broken, it came as a surprise.

"Do you think you'll be okay?" Hughes asked. His voice trembled a bit on the 'b' in be. His nose was red.

"I'm fine. I don't even feel it now. It's just all so sudden."

We sat again in silence for a time.

"You don't believe me," I said.

"I don't. But I'll give you time. I hear it comes in waves," he said.

"What does?

"The reaction to things like this."

I nodded. I might have read the same thing somewhere. We read a lot of the same books.

"Maybe it will. I'm fine now, though."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"What would you be able to do? It's not like we can defy this order. Our careers are at stake."

"I dunno, just asking."

Then he said what was on both of our minds.

"You know it'll be a bloodbath. The Ishvalans don't use alchemy like we do. They'll be slaughtered. And the reports on what we've been doing up there haven't been good, Roy. Are you sure you can do that?"

"I have no choice. This is the path I've chosen, as a dog of the military. This is where my ambition has led me. I can't back out now."

"I guess you're right, Roy."

And the more time passed in silence, and we arrived at my apartment complex. It was barely recognizable. We got out and shook hands.

"You know things are going great with Gracia," he blurted out, seemingly out of nowhere. "I'm thinking about asking her to marry me. She's such a pretty girl, don't you think? And sweet. It's about time, don't you think?" He said with a sad smile. He words condensed right out of his mouth and floated off into the air like so many helium balloons.

"You're totally right, Hughes," I said awkwardly.

"Look at this picture of us," he said, pulling out his wallet and showing me a picture of them standing together, smiling, under the roof of his apartment. "Don't you think it's just lovely?" He faltered a bit on the last syllable. It sort of disintegrated into powder.

"I think you'll be great together."

"Yup, you know it, Roy!"

He then grew shivered and grew stiff. Then he turned around and left. I thought that may be my last conversation with Hughes, but the next day I found a note under my door, enclosed in a pretty white envelope. I opened it up, and scrawled in Hughes' methodical handwriting was the following letter. I think I almost cried when I read it,

_Dear Roy,_

_I talked with the higher-ups. You know I have connections there. Anyway, it turns out I'm being assigned to Ishval as well. Can you believe it! Isn't that great? So you won't be alone! I think I might miss Gracia a lot, but it'll have been worth it, I think. We'll have each others' backs, Roy, isn't that great? So no matter what we do, no matter what we experience out in the desert land, we'll do it together._

_Your friend, Hughes._


End file.
